


Tarnished Halos

by Darklady



Series: Isis and Mittens [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Crack, M/M, Tribute Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: So someone suggested that Thomas and Peter should become detectives. And Musey bit. (Musey is rabid.) Really, you have only  yourselves to blame.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Isis and Mittens [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759939
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	Tarnished Halos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Halo Effect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892077) by [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324). 



> An ‘Isis and Mittens’ Tale (Which sadly lacks both Isis and THAT CAT.)
> 
> I would like to blush and apologize to Alex51324, who is both the owner of the Halo Effect series and just generally a MUCH better writer.
> 
> This silly bit of fluff is an AU of her AU via a comment made to a comment. In other words, don’t expect much in the way of literary merit. For that matter, don’t expect sanity. Enjoy it, rather, for the total brainless crack it is.
> 
> Then go read Halo Effect and Soldier’s Heart, both of which are incredible and deserve far better rewards than I can provide.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/series/1435963
> 
> Side note: I know that we see Thomas’s demob in chapter 32. Just handwave that, or assume that he comes back to the hospital later that night for…you know… for reasons. Had to find somewhen to set it, and I didn’t know how the story ended. So? Yeh.
> 
> No Beta, no worries.

It was the last day of his hospital service, and Thomas was sitting in Dr. Clarkson’s office with his last cup of Army tea when the phone rang. The receiver fumbled, falling loose in his worse hand. His intention was to answer properly, by location and by rank, but before he could swallow the caller was already shouting.

“Barrow? Thomas Barrow?”

“Yes?” He set his tea down.

“Thank god. I didn’t know if you were still there and…”

“Rawlins?” What in the devil’s name could he want? That Thomas could do anything at all about?

“I called you at the house and they said…”

“Rawlins! Calm the fuck down and tell me what the fuck is your problem!” Because however useless Thomas was to everyone these days he could only be more useless if no one told him what the fuck was going on.

“It’s my dad.”

“What?” How could Rawlins expect Thomas to do anything at all about a civilian? Unless? The influenza was coming on. “If he needs a doctor…”

“No. Sorry,” Rawlins interrupted. “It’s just… it’s that… you see…”

“Take a deep breath and then tell me what the… what the problem is.”

Thomas heard the puffing of air over the line as his former corporal complied.

“It’s like this. The paper mill, the one where my father works, you know? It had a war contract.”

Thomas ignored the bit where that made no sense. Every factory had a war contract. There had to be more. “Go on.”

“Now that the war is over they have accountants and such counting the various bits and making sure that everything is delivered or returned or labeled or whatever Whitehall says they ought to be. You know the drill.”

That brought a nod, even if it could not be seen. Accounting for supplies was what Thomas and Peter and all the last of the crew had spent the last days hard at.

“How is this a problem?” Which was a more interested question, because Thomas had been rather casual about listing the ‘expended’ supplies and, if some bugger in London was suddenly inclined to make a royal case of thing then it might be better to recount a few of the boxes that had accidently been displaced into a certain shed. Just casual like.

“The war department thinks someone at the factory was cooking the books. You know, like in the pharmacy back in France? Not just one loss but all though the war. It’s in my father’s area, and I know that he’s straight but no one else has confessed and they are starting to look at him side eyed and I don’t know what to do and…”

O.K. That was a legitimate problem. “What can I do?”

Rawlins puffed again. “You know how this sneaky stuff works. Can you come out and look at things and figure out who it is? Or at least who it’s not?” Who-it-is-not clearly being Rawlins pere’.

“I suppose.” It wasn’t like he had anywhere else he urgently needed to be. Sure, he might be able to drag out a few more days at Downton, but Carson was looking grimmer every breakfast and Peter’s billet was even less certain. No place to be translated to no place not to be, he supposed. “I can catch the early train.”

“Good. Great.” Rawlins slapped the phone. “I’ll tell everyone you’re coming and…”

“No.”

“What? But…? Why?”

Why was mostly because, if anyone more responsible than Rawlins knew the game they would probably put a stop to it. Better go with forgiveness than seek permission.

“I’ll come. Just...” He couldn’t quite say ‘keep your trap shut’. Someone in authority would spot them eventually. But that was eventually. “Don’t tell anyone.” He cut off the response. “It will just make whoever is guilty more careful to cover their tracks.”

“Then how?”

Wasn’t that the bloody damn question? In that instant, Thomas saw how he could get at least something out of this. “Just give me your address and tell your mother, if anyone asks, to say that she’s hiring two new footmen.”

“We don’t have footmen. I’m not that toffy.”

“Gardeners. Porters. Upstairs maids. Whatever. Just have your housekeeper let us in the house when Peter and I show up. Understood?”

“Yes Sergeant.” The relief was evident. “Whatever you say.”

“Good. We’ll be there tomorrow.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^  
“Sergeant Barrow. Corporal Fitzroy. I know you are friends of my son, and I appreciate the good intentions, but…” Mr. Rawlins senior was a well-built man, one who in better times would have been holding gracefully on to middle age. This morning he was gray enough that Thomas almost did think of calling a doctor, and the bags under his eyes rivaled the rucksacks he and Peter had packed along.

“Father.”

“Percy. I just don’t see what they can accomplish that the managers of the company could not.”

Wasn’t that the question? One Thomas wasn’t entirely ready to answer, but given he had already managed an excellent breakfast out of the deal he figured he had best manage something. Fortunately Rawlins-the-son was a lot more confident.

“He’s done this before. Twice. Caught the thieves – I mean – not been one. Once in France and once at the Downton place I told you about.” 

“Three times,” Peter inserted “Barrow here also caught a pair of black market dealers working around Ripton. Put a quick end to their business, if I do say.”

“See, father.” Percy gestured with a triangle of toast. “He’s smart at spotting shortages.” 

And that was a line of conversation not to be pursued further. Not if he wanted the father’s good will or to avoid family troubles.

“More to the point, Mr. Rawlins, I don’t plan to come in with trumpets and give the thief reason to hide.” 

That earned a bit of attention.

“Besides, sir,” Peter cut in. “What do you have to lose? At best, we clear your name and your company’s reputation. If we fail, no one will even know we were there.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

Damned if Thomas knew, but that wasn’t an answer you gave to the Ruperts, or even to civilian semi-Ruperts, so Thomas sent up a brief prayer in Tully’s direction (wherever in the three planes of existence that might be) and punted.

“Percy has given us a pretty solid description of your plant. Laid out how things work and how the paper moves though the line.” Thomas rolled out a map of the plant, roughly drawn on newsprint, that he had worked out from the scattered and random anecdotes gathered via breakfast. It might not have been perfect, but he figured it would pass for now. How many ways could you build a factory with a warehouse stuck to one side? “From what I see so far, there are only a few places where miscounts could be easy. To start with I’d look here, down where the reams get loaded for transport.” He pointed vaguely to the intersection of warehouse and road. “It wouldn’t be hard to count one less box onto the truck than was actually loaded, or to unload one less at the delivery point.”

Mr. Rawlins nodded. “I can see that.”

“The other place is here, on the packing line. Here a ream could be shifted off as ‘failed inspection’. All you’d have to do is put your thumb on the scale like a crooked butcher and… Bob’s your uncle.”

“What good would that do? Over and under packs get moved back and resorted.” Rawlins senior took the pencil for a quick resketch.

“Do they? Are you sure?” Thomas questioned. “Is anyone counting the rejects, or following the chap who pushes the cart back to the hopper?”

“Why would anyone…? Oh. I see.” Mr. Rawlins blinked at the smudged drawing. “So what do you suggest I do about it?”

Wasn’t that Thomas’s favorite question!

“Well, first off you’re going to do a favor for King George and hire one of his wounded veterans.” He pointed across the table. “Peter Fitzroy here is your new cart-pushing guy.”

“Can he?” Mr. Rawlins asked.

“Well enough to start.” Peter flexed his remaining arm. “I might not be the fastest cart man in the business, but I only need to pass muster for a day or two. After we solve this you can always fire me for inefficiency.”

“Plus, father, the more trips he needs to make the better the chance he will find out who is not making the trip with him. If some fellow detours, that’s our thief.”

“Very well, Percy. If you think that will solve it.”

“That’s half the plan,” Thomas cut in. “The other half is the new porter you’re hiring for the truck dock.”

“Which would be?”

Thomas smiled. “Me.” He raised a hand against objections. ”Again, not the best man for the job but I expect I can manage for a while before the foreman turfs me out. It’s the perfect position to see if any of the trucks leave a bit light.”

Mr. Rawlins rubbed his chin for even longer this time, but eventually slumped and gave in. “What will you be wanting for this?”

Oh. Thomas hadn’t thought that bit though. Damn well more than two days work at factory rates, that was for sure, but he honestly didn’t know what a private detective went for. Maybe he should have cared a bit more back when Bates was nattering on about his wife and her hotel lover. The information would have come in helpful now.

Lucky for them both, Peter took it up. “Ten percent of what we save.” When Rawlins looking inclined to haggle he added, “cheap, really, since we’re throwing the bonus of you not going to jail into the bargain.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Ey. Watch it!” Peter nearly fell, having no arm to balance himself after a sudden back step. The paper carts were, in theory, simple structures with a bar in the back and two short poles in the front intended to pull the three shelves of stacked paper goods riding between. No wider than the ramps up to and down from the doors, they should have been an easy matter to maneuver. Unfortunately, whoever was responsible for lubricating the wheels had been slacking on the job. [Or, more likely, no longer on the job, given how the war had drained manpower over the last years.] A push at the back was as likely to send the heavy mess sideways as forward. Once that happened the stacked papers would shift and the lot would have to be reloaded before anything could move.

“Steering as straight as I can.” Peter waved his one hand. He had been assigned to the back end, the easier posting, where he should have been able to press the cart forward with his one hand on the center of the bar. Giving that up as an evidently bad job, he walked to the front. “Tell you what.” He offered. “You steer and I’ll pull.”

The poles would be useless, but he could grip the box between them.

“That’s the worse work.”

Peter shrugged. “Can’t be harder than shifting stretchers in France.”

“You serve there?

Hadn’t everyone? “R.A.M.C. Corporal.”

The man gave that a slow moments thought. “I was Navy.”

“Rough duty, that.” Peter answered honestly. “I was stationed on a hospital ship for a bit. Good men, the Navy.”

“Too right.” There came another meditative pause. “Here.” His fellow leaned into the back handle. “We can manage it like this.”

“So”, Peter asked casually. “How long have you been working here?”

^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Ey. Hurry along there.” A shout came from the foreman.

“Shifting as fast as I can, guv.” In better times Thomas would have snapped back harder, but right now he needed the job for more reason than the obvious so it was best to mind. Although – to the positive – this place ran more like the army than like Downton downstairs. No one minded if you grumbled as long as you kept it low and kept working.

The dock was chaos, men crossing everywhere that the stacks and boxes allowed. Half the trucks were already started, the engines warming, lending a blue haze to the cacophony of machines. Thomas gave a bit of thanks for the foresight in packing his greatcoat. This early the open concrete was icy as the devil’s backside, a climate not helped by the huge open doors and – since the cargo being packed was flammable paper goods – the total absence of any stove or heater.

Loads had been counted onto rolling pallets by the warehouse crew the night before and marked for the various delivery trucks. Thomas’s job was to push the boxes up to the second guy waiting inside the truck. That man’s job was to stack the load on the truck bed. No one, evidently, had the job of checking the inventory to confirm that either crew had actually done the job they were supposed to have done.

Damn fools to leave a hole like that.

Thomas’s sense of satisfaction covered the pain of lifting with one and a half arms. At least a bit.

The driver sauntered out. 

“They hiring cripples now?”

“Stiff up”, Thomas snarled. “These boxes are moving well enough. Not like you have to start working until it’s done.”

The man considered this pronouncement. “Fair point.”

The second man – Eddie as he was – leaned out of the truck. “Be a bit fairer if you gave a hand, seeing as you’re so keen. Way I see it I’m busting my arse while you’re sitting on yours.”

“But an hour from now he’ll be out riding on his arse.” Thomas forced a laugh. “Don’t half envy your lot, mate. Bad enough we freeze and sweat in here, but you sort are out there all day with not so much as a piss break.”

The driver smiled. “I make out alright.”

“Clever sod if you do. That’s all I say. You’ve got to be a clever sod if you do.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^  
After shift ended Mr. Rawlins had smuggled them into his office and poured them each a glass of decent whiskey. Mrs. Rawlins had sent along a picnic meal. That made two more benefits of this job to date. He had cleared his desk and the full company had gathered around to enjoy both.

“Fitzroy?” Mr. Rawlins opened the meeting.

“No luck.” Peter set down a leg of chicken, politely keeping to the edge of the new and more accurate factory map. “I mean, the ladies on the unpack line are shifting a few pages into their blouses, but nowhere near enough to account for the shrinkage.” He gave it a quick count, fingers tapping on the table. “I’d say personal use only.”

Rawlins senior bristled. “How dare they!”

“Write it off as perques,” Thomas cut in. “Hard enough to get decent workers at women’s wages.” Plus he would be twice damned before he’d play the Pinkerton. He was no socialist but he twice as much wasn’t a suck-up like Carson. Maybe they the line women weren’t exactly mates, but he still wasn’t willing to drop them in the shit.

“Best move.” Peter lifted the glass in his partner’s direction. “Shalt not bind the mouth of the ox that treads the grain, and all that bit.”

The moral sentiment might not have convinced Mr. Rawlins, but serving the better part of wisdom he let it go.

“So it has to be at the driver’s end.” Percy had slumped though the day but after a beer (and, Thomas suspected, a pill) had regained his natural cheer.

“Not that I’ve caught,” Thomas confessed. “Although, for the record, you do have one driver putting up more miles than he should. Chap named Willis.”

“How do you know that?”

“I checked the odometer before the trucks went out this morning, and I checked them all again tonight. He’s running an extra fifty miles or so over what the map says.”

“And I suppose this is also one of those privileges we should tolerate?”

“Not so much. I talked to his chums and he’s doing deliveries for certain shops in town, running their loads on your time. Some days he leaves your boxes back of the business while he takes theirs. Could be where some of the loss is happening.”

“So I fire him and that fixes it?”

“You fire him and we keep looking.” When Mr. Rawlins looked inclined to argue he explained. “I said some of the loss but likely not all of it. He’d have noticed if that much was taken, and have turned more careful.” If not, Thomas did not add, more honest. A man who could rig that complex of a backhand deal had likely done as much before and elsewhere.

“Besides which, father, I checked with payroll and Jack Willis has only been driving for the last year. Paper has been going missing for twice that at least.”

Which both did and did not clear the driver. It alibied him for theft of paper, but he still earned the boot for the diversion of time and petrol. Fair enough, Thomas thought. Some shit a chap earned his seat in.

“So.” Mr. Rawlins considered his situation. “If the loss isn’t in the two places you said, where does that leave us?

Fucked was the answer, but Thomas knew better than to say that. He went with the more hopeful version. “Tonight I’d say it leaves all of us in your office, going over the books again. This time in a lot more careful detail. Maybe we can find something missed before.”

If not, Thomas would be the one sitting in the shit.

^^^^^^^^^^

“What’s that?” The metal screech had not been loud. Indeed, had any of the company talking rather than calculating they might well have missed it.

Peter twitched the curtain, peeping down at the empty lot and over at the equally silent buildings. The landscape was still, not even a cat or rat moving over the flat earth. “Is anyone else supposed to be here?”

“No.” Mr. Rawlins answered. “We had a night watchman but he went off” (to war, it went unstated) “and we haven’t hired a new man yet.”

The same was likely true for the other businesses set to the rear and sides. God’s balls, Thomas thought, it was a miracle that someone hadn’t come along and stolen the whole bloody building. There had been plenty enough in France that would have, and that was just counting the worst of the civilians. Rumor said some of the Welsh troops could pack a billet up and ship it home rural delivery before their officers even knew the building had been there.

“Could it be a delivery?” Peter asked.

Percy shook his head. “We don’t take deliveries this late.” 

Well no, they couldn’t if no one was here to accept it.

The noise came again.

“I think that’s the dock door.”

“Why would a truck go there at this time of night?” Thomas wondered.

Peter cracked open the office door. He pressed his ear to the opening. “Does that sound like a truck?”

“Not so much. I’m not Branson but if I had to say? That’s a lot smoother sounding engine than this morning.”

Mr. Rawlins collected his jacket. “Let me go down there and…”

“No!” Thomas hissed. “Don’t turn on any lights. In fact, Rawlins, turn OFF the light. Just in case our visitor hasn’t seen us. Whoever this is might know we are here, but the curtains are thick and the road is on the other side of the building so they might not.”

Rawlins obeyed, waiting until the last glow of the lamp had faded before moving to open the curtains to the night. “Sniper’s moon,” he observed. “Father, you want to close your eyes for a few minutes. Let them adapt to the dark.”

“Rawlins, you know this place well enough to take point?” 

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Then it’s you first, then me, then Peter, and Mr. Rawlins you’re in the rear.” 

The elder Rawlins pulled himself up. “I can…”

“No offense, sir, but we are the army chaps. You are the civilian.” Peter moved to take his place in the lineup. 

Thomas nodded. “If whoever it is takes up with us, your orders are to run back to your office at top rate and phone through for the police. Understood?”

“I suppose.” 

He didn’t sound happy. He did sound obedient. Thomas would settle for that.

“Good.”

“Now, men. This is the plan.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Percy Rawlins moved forward, keeping low behind the railing in his best trench shuffle.

The procession wasn’t totally silent – wood planks creaked where mud had not – but whoever was downstairs was making racket enough to cover their careful approach.

“Big door is open.” Rawlins reported back. He pitched his voice low enough not to travel. “Plus, the truck’s lights are on.”

Nice of them to give us the illumination, Thomas sneered to himself. The close light would tend to blind the crew below and aid the more distant eyes up above.

Thomas joined him behind the rail. “Doesn’t look like a truck. Lights are slung too low. Private car.”

“Two chaps.” Rawlins continued, confirming the message with two raised fingers, followed by pointing down and to the side. “One by the stacks.”

Three against two was fair odds, even given the lack of arms. Well, parity of arms, really. Still, there was no way of knowing what service the others had seen, and the RAMC was brave but not really battle troops. Thomas wanted a bit better if he could get it.

“Give it a minute. I want them both with their arms full.”

“Got it, Sarge.” Rawlins slid over to the concrete wall, one arm up against the heavy scissors switch that managed power for the work floor.

Thomas held up three fingers. “On my count. One. Two. Go.”

Blinding overhead arc lights flared on.

The senior Rawlins snapped up in shock. “Mr. Maynard-Shaw!”

“Mr. Rawlins!” A young man looked up in horror. He was snappily dressed, a good match for the roadster now revealed on the floor below. His presence was damming. The boxes of paper already loaded into the back seat were more so.

“Richard Morton Maynard-Shaw!”

Boxes of paper hit the floor, splitting and sending pages like snow to litter the concrete dock. The sound was a gunshot, and three of the four ducked. Only Mr. Rawlins stretched taller, pointing finger looming like death in a pantomime.

The young man below was also ducking, but not from trench instinct. Rather he covered his face like a naughty toddler. 

“I can explain.”

“You can explain to your father, whom I will be calling.”

“No, please.”

Thomas noticed the second man slipping out into the night, but said nothing. He was no one, and he wouldn’t make a problem if Thomas didn’t make one first.

Rawlins senior’s tone turned bitter. “You can explain this to your father, or you can explain to the police. Take your choice.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Thank you, gentlemen.” It was morning. The debris of another generous breakfast graced the kitchen table. Mr. Rawlins had regained his ruby complexion. Virtue had evidently returned to the world.

Thomas was less sanguine. “I suppose, since it was the owner’s son, there’s not going to be much by way of savings to share our way.”

“There is that. Plus, Mr. Maynard-Shaw Senior can not be overly thrilled at the outcome, for all that… well… it’s better that we should know than otherwise. So one can’t say you have not earned something.”

He passed over an envelope. Peter opened it. Inside lay a cheque and a pair of second-class tickets back to Downton.

He passed the check to Thomas.

Thomas read the numbers – twice – before folding it into his breast pocket. No fortune, perhaps, but enough to keep them going longer before ill fortune.

“Well then. That’s that.”

“Now, the two of you,” Rawlins senior put on his stern face. ‘You do understand this matter is to be kept entirely confidential.”

“Naturally”, Peter agreed. “We’d never want those Whitehall chaps to know they were being robbed by a gentleman. Not cricket, and all that.”

“I begin to question the quality of Percy’s war friends, but… yes. It would do our future contract chances no good if rumors were to get around about the management of the company. So, gentlemen?”

“Mum.”

“Like the grave.”

“Never a word out of me.”

Thomas laid his hand on his chest. “As long as this check clears.”


End file.
